Last night I went to bed worrying that the torrents of rain would surely mean our rivers overflowing their banks by morning. I went to sleep – surprisingly – to a roll of thunder (did I dream that?) and the cacophony of wind and water against glass and roof shingles. I thought the uneasiness would keep me awake, watchful – maybe like Mary Magdalene at the tomb of Jesus. But no, I could not claim that kind of fidelity. I went to sleep.
This morning is a bit of a surprise. I have not solicited information about water damage in our village or beyond but the rainstorm has worn itself out, having cleansed everything sooner than expected. One could say that all earth’s tears have been shed and now we have only to wait in hope for resurrection. I am sitting in the same stillness as the tree across the yard, waiting…feeling spent and not ready to move forward with the day. Jesus remains in the tomb.
What will it take for me to recognize the transformation that is resurrection? Can it be done in me by nightfall? What will I know tomorrow (“the great feast of Easter”) that will be testament to this process of Holy Week? Will I be clearer of purpose? More dedicated to mission? A slight breeze ripples through my bedroom curtain and is mirrored by the tree outside. Can I take that as a sign, a conviction that tonight’s ritual will let me know that Christ is risen once again in my heart and in the world?
I recognize that now it is up to me to answer my own questions, to be the catalyst of my own truth and trust. Each of us must know that and come to stand ready for what is to come in the light of Christ’s return.